Ten Things I Hate About You
by eleven19
Summary: Ruby Cassidy is the most popular girl at Padua High; Victor is determined to help her, but it's not going to be easy: he has to find someone with just enough nerve and just little enough self-preservation to date her brother, Neal. Emma Swan might be that someone. Gender bent, Swanfire AU, with smut-writing Gold. (as of 3/1/18, Victor is the "Cameron", not Archie)
1. Chapter 1

Ruby Cassidy was _the_ most popular girl at Padua High. Her brother, Neal, was…a little more _independent_ than her.

 _"_ _Spirited"_ was how his grandmother described it; " _rebellious"_ from the guidance counselor, Mr. Gold (barely glancing up from his computer screen); and most of his classmates went with, "Antisocial bastard— I mean, he is _fucked up_ , man."

But Neal had no interest in his classmates: so long as they stayed out his way, he stayed out of theirs. They left him to his misanthropic brooding; he left them to their Instagramming. It was a good system, and it worked well: and had Ruby not been so popular, it would have continued to work— right up until graduation, when he would be on his way to Brown, fully content in the knowledge that he would never have to see any of those pathetic, sheep-minded knuckle-draggers again.

The problem was, Ruby _was_ so popular. Everyone knew who she was, and everyone liked her. Particularly the boys in the gym locker room, after class. They liked her so much, they discussed her. Very descriptively. In different scenarios. Without knowing that Neal was behind that corner stall door, and not in a mood to hear graphic reimaginings of his little sister.

That was why Mr. Booth was marching him down to the office, his hand seized around Neal's elbow like he was some kind of deranged criminal. Neal scoffed at the manhandling, but in all honesty, it was probably a good thing he had such a tight grip on him: if not, that little bitch, Killian Jones, would have lost even more of his already precious few brain cells.

"…don't care what your excuse was, young man, you can't go punching other students and not expect to be disciplined for it!" Booth was hissing at him as they walked into Gold's office.

"Concept grasped," Neal exhaled, dropping into the seat across Gold's desk. The guidance counselor didn't look away from his computer screen, his fingers flying rapidly over the keyboard.

"Problems?" he asked by way of greeting.

"Neal Cassidy," Booth reported. "He was beating the crap out of Killian Jones in the locker room. Now I know, boys will be boys, and a little rough-and-tumble is good for them, but Cassidy seemed intent on sending him home in a body-bag, and I think the parents—"

"Thank you, Mr. Booth, I'll take it from here." Mr. Gold glanced away from his screen long enough to shuffle some papers around, presumably hunting down the proper disciplinary forms. Booth gave Neal a curt, _"Hmm!"_ of satisfaction, and stalked out of the office.

Gold drew out a piece of paper from the stack on his desk, regarding it with a slight frown as he skimmed it, then slid it over to Neal. "Fill that out for me, huh?" he said, turning back to his computer.

Neal blew out a breath, and reached for a pen to start scribbling in his name and misdemeanor. Gold mumbled to himself as he typed, slurring words together and snapping his fingers. Clearly not related to academics at Padua High, or at least, Neal hoped not because some of the phrases he caught were: "heaving breasts" and "groaning with desire". Unless detention was suddenly getting a lot more interesting, Gold was once again pursuing his dreams as an erotic romance novelist.

"… _Adrian removed her cape, gazing at Reginald's—"_ Gold stopped, looking at the ceiling with a furrowed brow. "What's a better word for ' _engorged'?"_ he mused. "Swollen? Turgid?"

"Tumescent?" Neal suggested dryly.

"Perfect!" Gold clapped his hands together, and went back to work on his keyboard, typing feverishly. Neal sat back with a grimace, listening to a murmured description of Adrian and Reginald's torrid affair. After Reginald's " _final, frenzied thrust",_ Gold tapped a key triumphantly, and leaned back in his seat with a satisfied smile.

"All done?" he asked, nodding at Neal's disciplinary paper.

"Yep." Neal pushed it over to him. Gold whipped it up and held it out, reading over it with raised eyebrows.

"Throwing fists, eh?" he said. "Oh, Cassidy…What _are_ we going to do with you?"

"I was defending my sister's honor," he said with a wry smile. "If this was France two hundred years ago, I'd get a commissioned painting and a royal insignia."

Gold raised an eyebrow. "Well, unfortunately, this _isn't_ France two hundred years ago," he said, reaching for a pen to sign the form. "And you've got your own reputation to worry about without bringing your sister to the party. People perceive you as somewhat—"

"Tempestuous?"

"The phrase, _'deranged psychopath'_ comes to mind." Gold clicked his pen shut. "I don't know the whole story, nor do I particularly care, but—"

A knock interrupted him, and the door swung open: a girl with straggly blonde hair spilling from underneath a red beanie poked her head in, flashing a winning smile. Gold grimaced, holding out his hand.

"Hey, Mr. Gold," the girl grinned, handing him a crumpled paper. "You're looking radiant today."

"Does that line work with your parole officer?"

Neal raised an eyebrow; the girl caught it, and winked at him. "Social worker," she explained with a little shrug. "And no, actually. But it _does_ work when I mention how sexy you look in your little suit, there."

Gold lowered the page, looking over it with suspicious eyes. "She thinks it's sexy?" he frowned.

"Oh, I couldn't betray her confidence like that. Let's just say, she has an urgent need to leave the room."

Neal coughed into his fist to mask the uncontrollable retching that threatened. Gold didn't seem to notice him: he beamed, repositioning himself in his chair to reach the keyboard.

"Both of you, out," he said, flourishing his hand at them. "You're dismissed, little criminals. Be good, find creative outlets—I've got work to do."

"Beautiful." The girl threw another wink at Neal, and spun out of the room. Neal stared after her, then turned incredulously to Gold— who was not paying him the slightest attention.

After a moment of utter bewilderment, Neal got up and wandered over to the door. He reached for the handle; then turned to look over his shoulder: Gold was typing more furiously than ever, looking rather flushed now and loosening his tie.

"… _ripped the suit of the Adonis…teeth scraping…"_

 _"_ Yikes." Thoroughly disturbed, Neal quickly opened the door and slipped out, walking away hurriedly. So desperate was he to escape the presence of the filthy-minded counselor, he barely noticed the spiky-haired homunculus coming in the opposite direction.

"Whoa!" The kid swerved to avoid Neal, who walked past him without a second glance; as he did with the secretary, Ms. Mills and blonde, beanied girl, both of whom seemed just as content to ignore him.

He'd gotten off easy, he knew it: school violence was a hot button issue, and under a competent disciplinary system, he'd've been facing suspension, at least. But the way he saw it, Killian Jones got off just as easy: the things he was saying about Ruby…he deserved a lot more than a punch, that bastard.

* * *

Victor Whale put a hand to his rapidly beating heart, staring after the tall Breakfast-Club-reject who'd nearly bowled him over. Five minutes at Padua High, and he was already fearing for his life.

"You can go in, Mr. Whale," the secretary said in a bored voice, pointing at the office door. She glanced over the top of her glasses. "Make sure you knock."

She said it more as a warning for _his_ benefit than the counselor's—which would have struck Victor as rather odd, had he not forgotten and opened the door to some of the _filthiest_ erotica he'd ever been exposed to.

"Oh, my God!" he yelped, covering his ears.

The counselor—Mr. Gold—snapped his head up in annoyance. "It's poetry!" he insisted. "How dare you close your ears on this _art!_ "

Victor stared at him with wide eyes, cautiously lowering his hands. "Sorry," he said, not quite sure whether or not he was serious. "Um… I-I was told to come to the guidance counselor's office. My name is Victor Whale?"

Gold lifted an indifferent eyebrow. "And?"

"And I'm the new student?"

"Oh." Gold flicked his eyes, adjusting in his seat to reach some papers at the far end of his desk. "The army brat, right? Nine schools in seven years, but perfect records in all." He skimmed Victor's transcripts with a rueful smile. "They're going to eat you alive here."

"What?"

"These are yours," Gold said briskly, handing him a few papers. "Schedule, and a few things for your parents to sign. Map of the school should be in there somewhere, and if it's not?" He shrugged, holding up his hands. "High school's a jungle, make friends with the tigers. Now, get out—I've got things to do."

Victor took the papers, and quickly exited before he heard any more about Reginald and Adrian. He looked around the hallway, briefly wondering which of the scattered clumps of students were "tigers"; then dropped his eyes to his schedule. _Spanish… Calculus I…Honors Chemistry…_ Nothing that he felt really prepared him for the ordeal he was about to go through: such as, _How to Fashion Small Weapons Out of Pencil Scraps_ or _Tigers: Where Do I Find Them, And How Do I Make Them Like Me?_

He flipped over to the map, nervously chewing his thumbnail as he tried to find his Spanish class. _Which hallway am I even in right now? Maybe if I could find the library or cafeteria or something, I could just—_

 _"_ Careful, sweetie!"

"Sorry!" Victor cursed under his breath, trying to catch his papers as he bumped into yet _another_ person. "Sorry, I wasn't look…" _Holy shit._

She was Venus in human form; Helen of Troy reincarnated; the most breathtakingly beautiful girl he'd ever laid bespectacled eyes upon. Dark waves of hair framed a delicate-featured face, bright blue eyes twinkling with the unbridled joy of a girl who knows she is beautiful, and delights in it. But there was kindness, too: a gentle warmth, a sweetness in the way she touched his shoulder and laughed, "Are you okay?"

 _She's talking to me,_ Victor realized, a moment later. _Oh, God, what do I do? What do I say? Oh, God!_

"F-fine," he managed, by some miracle. "Thanks. I'm fine. Sorry."

"It's okay." The goddess gave him a parting smile, and moved on, completely forgetting him. Victor stared after her, his mouth slightly open in disbelief.

Was she an angel? Was that what angels looked like? Or was God finally making up for that ridiculously disappointing bar mitzvah (didn't even break two hundred dollars, what was even the point of learning Hebrew)?

"Your drool is a safety hazard," a dry voice said behind him. Victor blinked, and turned around, finding himself face to face with a rather smirky-looking, curly-haired boy. After a minute of regarding him with a mixture of pity and derision, he stuck his hand. "Jefferson Hatter."

Victor raised his eyebrows, and shook the boy's hand. "Victor Whale."

"New kid," Jefferson guessed, pointing a shrewd finger at him. "Where'd you move here from? Never mind, I don't care. _Anyway—_ " he cleared his throat, giving the red bowtie at his throat a little tug—"I suppose I'll excuse your drool today. First exposure to Ruby Cassidy, it's bound to happen. Don't worry, though—the novelty wears off after a while."

Victor seriously doubted that, but Jefferson didn't give him a chance to argue; he dropped his arm around Victor's shoulder, walking at a quick pace as he guided him down the hallway.

"Caution, my young friend. Padua is a dangerous place, especially for little insects like you. There's a hierarchy, and you have to respect it if you want to survive here." Jefferson pointed at a group of boys by the lockers, all wearing some manner of black leather and chains. " _Those_ are your leaders. You stay out of their way, do as they command, and they won't chain you to the back of a motorcycle and drag your bloody carcass around town."

Victor whipped his head to stare at Jefferson with wide eyes. "Are you serious?"

"Oh, very," Jefferson nodded. "See that kid in the middle? The one with the earring?"

Victor squinted to see the tall kid with purposely-roughed hair, leaning against the lockers with a smirk and folded, tattooed arms. "The one who looks like he was raised in prison?"

"That's Killian Jones," Jefferson said. " _Major_ douche. King of the school. The girls are in love with him, the guys are afraid of him, and his daddy is some kind of oil tycoon or something. That girl you were drooling over?"

"Ruby?"

"You catch on quick, kiddo. Word around the school is, he's got his eye on her, so take my advice—" Jefferson suddenly wheeled him around, bracing his hands on his shoulders—"don't break your own heart, Vito. Find a different girl to write love sonnets to, let loose your romantic spirit on a girl of your _own status._ My personal recommendation? The ginger who runs the Celibacy Club. She's cute, in a nunnery sort of way, and…well, no one really expects you to lose your virginity in high school, anyway." He poked Victor's _Star Wars_ T-shirt. "Not if you're wearing this shit."

Victor raised an eyebrow, gesturing at Jefferson's bow tie and suspenders. "But _this_ is going to get you laid?"

Jefferson's smile flickered. "Look, Vito," he said. "I like you. You seem like a decent guy. A little green around the ears, but a _smart_ guy. So, do yourself a favor: use those smarts, and listen to me. Give up on your dreams. Ruby Cassidy is out of your league, and you are never going to get her. Hell, you're not going to get within ten feet of her! Because if you do, one of two things are going to happen: 1) Killian Jones is going to beat the ever-loving shit out of you, or 2) Neal Cassidy will."

"Who's Neal Cassidy?" Victor frowned.

"Her older brother," Jefferson said with a grim smile. "He exists outside of the food chain. If there's anyone in the school you should be more afraid of than Killian Jones, it's Neal Cassidy." He clapped a hand on Victor's shoulders. "So there you go: two compelling reasons to stay as far away from Ruby as possible."

But those sparkling eyes…that infectious smile…the way she touched his shoulder, and laughed, "Are you okay?" Those were three compelling reasons to get as _close_ to Ruby as possible.


	2. Chapter 2

"Damn, he really got you, didn't he?"

Killian closed his eyes impatiently as Robin Loxley inspected the purpling bruise on his jaw. "It's not that bad," he said through gritted teeth.

"Not that bad?" Robin scoffed. "I'm surprised you're still conscious. Say what you will about him, but Cassidy can throw a mean punch."

"Yeah, well…" Killian trailed off as he caught sight of a lean, leggy beauty over Robin's shoulder: Ruby Cassidy, gliding down the hallway like it was a runway. "There's only one Cassidy I'm really concerned about right now."

He'd seen and seduced his fair share of beautiful girls, but none compared to Ruby. She had an innocence about her, completely betrayed by those long, lithe legs and bedroom eyes; sensual lips that curled into a _come-hither_ smile; cream-colored skin that _begged_ to be touched… Neal could throw as many punches as he wanted, but there was no way Killian was giving up on Ruby. He'd dealt with plenty of brothers and jealous boyfriends, and if there was ever a girl worth it, it was this one.

He took advantage of her delay from hallway traffic (some ginger nobody, gaping helplessly after her) to rearrange himself against the lockers: arms loosely folded, head back to show off his earring and the scruff along his jaw. A sultry pose, coupled with his signature _devil-may-care_ smirk, was enough to send most girls into flustered giggles, and he was really counting on it having the same on effect on Ruby.

"…okay," he heard her laugh as the ginger fumbled for an apology for nearly colliding with her. She moved past him, the brilliant smile still dancing on her face as she continued chattering with the blonde at her side. Killian lifted his chin, silently willing her to look over and notice him watching her. It was the first step in laying the trap: girls loved feeling beautiful; and what better way to make her feel beautiful than special attention from Killian Jones?

"…there's a difference between 'like' and 'love'," Ruby was saying emphatically. "Because I _like_ my Sketchers—but I _love_ my Prada backpack." Her eyes flicked to the side, catching sight of him, and pink tinge rose in her cheeks, her smile becoming a little more uneven.

Killian grinned, savoring the effect he had on her. _Ah, success._

"Watch and learn, boys," he said to his cronies, raking a hand through his hair. "Watch. And. Learn."

Ruby's head was bent over her locker when he sauntered over; with a flick over her wrist, she swung it up—only to have him slam it shut. She looked briefly startled to see him, his elbow propped against the locker as he leant in, flashing a grin at her—but managed a nervous smile.

"Afternoon, Ruby," Killian said. "You're looking lovely, as usual."

"Um—thanks," she said, pushing her hair behind her ear. She shifted to balance her stack of books against her hip, eyes looking everywhere but at him. "S-so, uh—was there something you wanted?"

"Just to say 'hi', see how you were doing…" He reached out under the pretense of adjusting her slipping backpack strap, his fingers brushing her skin. A heated glow rose in her cheeks.

"Th-thanks," she muttered.

"'Course." Killian let his fingers linger a bit longer, enjoying the blush creeping up her neck. "That's a pretty necklace."

Ruby touched the red pendant at her throat. "It was my mom's," she said. "She gave it to me a long time ago."

"Yeah?" Killian said, rather losing interest in the necklace in favor of the slightly-visible bra strap next to it. "Hey, I bet I can guess what you're doing this Saturday night."

"Um—" she blinked—"studying for that French test I'm going to fail?"

"French, huh?" He grinned, leaning in further. "Maybe I could give you a private lesson."

"Wait…" A bewildered smile spread on her face. "Are—are you asking me out?"

"Now, you're catching on," Killian winked. "I'll pick you up at eight."

"No."

His eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"I can't," Ruby said. "I mean, I can't without asking my gran. She's—she's got rules about dating."

Killian frowned, feeling thoroughly annoyed. Was he seriously getting cock-blocked by a seventy-year-old woman?

"I might be able to convince her," Ruby said hopefully, holding her books closer to her chest. "I'll talk to her, see if I can't get her to bend."

"Well…" Killian sighed, drawing closer; curling his finger around a loose tendril of her hair. "I really hope you can. I think you and I could have a lot of fun together…I'd hate to miss out on all that."

Ruby looked at him with round eyes, hardly breathing. Killian concealed a smirk; he abruptly dropped his hand, stepping away.

"Let me know what happens with your gran," he said, walking backwards. "I'll see you later, Ruby."

He turned away before she had a chance to respond, feeling confident that—provided he could get past the old goat—Ruby Cassidy was his for the taking.

* * *

She allowed herself one more minute of primping in the windshield mirror, fully aware that she was pushing the envelope on punctuality—but it was necessary. She'd tried a new lipstick today (a bold red, far more daring than a meek-mannered social worker would typically wear). Risky, but again— _necessary._ It had been eight months since she'd ended things with Keith, and it was time to get back in the game.

Although, Belle reflected, nervously straightening the blue ascot around her neck, there was no need to _rush_ into the game. Perhaps eight months wasn't quite as much as she thought it was: she and Keith had been together for almost a year, maybe it was too soon…

"No," she said out loud. "No, you are—" she grit her teeth, determined to put those self-help books to use—"you are a strong, independent, beautiful woman. You don't need a sleazy bastard's approval to make you feel good about yourself—you only need _your_ approval. Right?"

She tapped her fingers on the wheel, waiting for herself to come back with an enthusiastic, "Right!" A silent moment passed, during which she tried to remember chapter three ( _How To Stand Up To Your Own Reflection!)_ , but she was running late as it was. There simply wasn't _time_ to work on self-esteem now, she had a wayward teenager's school records to review.

Belle sighed heavily and gathered up her files, all of which were labelled: _Emma Swan._ She smiled faintly at the photograph pinned to the top: a blonde girl with mischievous green eyes and a slightly crooked-toothed smile. Frustrating and life-consuming as the life of a social worker was, Belle loved her work, and she loved her kids—Emma, in particular.

Belle wouldn't have admitted it to anyone—least of all twelve-year-old Nik Gardner, who nursed quite a crush on her—but Emma was her favorite. They'd been together for a long time, and while the last eight years had been filled with a lot of heart-warming moments, they had also been filled with—she sighed exasperatedly, heading up to the building she was far too familiar with— _shenanigans._

Emma had a reputation as a troublemaker, in the school system. Nothing _illegal_ (at least, nothing she'd been caught for), but she was rather dreaded by the teachers and office staff. She'd become well-known in the disciplinary office, and by extension, so had Belle.

It did nothing to endear her to Regina Mills, who gave only a curt nod as she passed her secretary's desk; and as for the guidance counselor…? (Belle swallowed, reading the plaque just outside his office, emblazoned: R. GOLD, GUIDANCE COUNSELOR.) Mr. Gold was another problem altogether.

She raised her hand, hesitating only a moment before knocking.

" _Entrez-vous_ …"

Belle bit her lip. He sounded distracted; and the last time he'd been distracted, he'd granted her entry to his office without realizing he was still audibly muttering the filthy erotica he was typing into his laptop. She'd heard words like "voracious" and "frenzied" used alongside poorly veiled euphemisms—which made her blush for a solid week. Gold had offered a genuine apology, but Emma was laughing too hard for Belle to catch the whole thing. Which was a shame, because he seemed very eloquent, and she imagined it would have been quite lovely.

"Who is it?" Gold snapped. "I haven't got all day, you know! Either get in, or get lost!"

 _Damn it._ Belle closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, and tentatively pushed the door open. "Mr. Gold, i-it's me—Belle French? Emma Swan's social worker?" she added.

"Belle? I mean, Miss French?" Gold immediately stood up, his hands nervously slamming his laptop shut. "I-I didn't realize you were coming! Please, take a seat—" he indicated the chair in front of his desk with one hand, hastily gathering papers with the other.

"Thank you." Belle carefully smoothed her skirt as she sat down, only just now realizing how visible her legs were. _Why_ she'd only noticed that when she was directly in front of Mr. Gold, far too late to do anything but be embarrassed about it, she didn't know: sure, she'd had plenty of time to consider her _lipstick,_ but whether or not she was dressed appropriately for a business meeting wasn't a priority? _Good, Belle. Real good._

"So, uh—" Gold coughed into his fist; his hair swinging into his face as he bent his head, rummaging for a pen—"how can I help you?"

"I'm here for Emma's quarterly evaluation," Belle said, pushing her hair behind her ear. "Make sure her grades are up, that she's socially engaged, behaving appropriately…"

"Emma…Emma, Emma, Emma…" Gold muttered to himself as he turned to the desktop computer and pulled up her files. Belle watched as he scrutinized the screen, hoping he didn't have anything _too_ terrible to report.

"Let's see…She's got a problem with tardiness…occasional detention… _Did_ get a little mouthy with a teacher, but Booth's an ass, so maybe he deserved it." Gold perused Emma's files a bit more, his eyebrows lifting in slight approval as he reviewed her grades. "Not bad. Calculus could be better, she's pulling a C-, but the rest are B's—even a couple A's."

Belle let out a relieved exhale. "Good," she said, nodding her head. "That's good, that's very good."

"Her social behavior, I'm slightly concerned about, though," Gold said, finally breaking away from the computer. "She's a bit of a loner. You'd think, going on year four, she'd have settled into a group by now—found a club, or at least a steady lunch table—but she keeps to herself. Now—" he spread his hans, shrugging—"I wouldn't say anything, I get a lot of introverts. It's just something to keep an eye on, so I'm letting you know."

"I understand," Belle nodded, taking out a pen. Pulling her own files toward her, she scribbled a few notes on Gold's report; then skimmed through some papers, a slight frown on her face. "Mrs. Nolan is aware of the tardiness?"

"We've informed her, but it tends to happen more _in between_ classes." Gold shifted his eyes, then leaned forward confidentially. "I'm pretty sure she smokes behind the gym."

Belle looked up in alarm. " _What_? What makes you say that?"

"Seems like the type," Gold shrugged.

 _Oh, she does, does she?_ Belle bristled, straightening in her seat, feeling much braver in the face of defending Emma from unfounded accusations. "And exactly why would you think she's that type? Because she's a foster kid?"

"Because she once offered me a cigarette in the parking lot. Behind the gym _."_

"Oh." Belle closed her eyes, silently cursing Emma. "Well, I'll—I'll certainly take some action, regarding that. That's completely inappropriate."

Gold waved a dismissive hand. "It's not a big deal. The kids act out here— even the nerds. How many times I've had Neal Cassidy in my office for getting smart…"

"Right," Belle said, though she had no idea who Neal Cassidy was. "The thing is, Mr. Gold, Emma _does_ need to maintain a level of behavior, so even if she's meeting your standards, she's not meeting mine."

"Ah." Gold bit his lip, looking rather like _he_ was the one awaiting disciplinary action, rather than Emma. "Well, that's…understandable. Perhaps we are a bit lax here."

"I'm not here to judge," Belle said diplomatically. "I'm here to do my job. I do answer to a higher authority."

Gold's eyes narrowed. "To be fair, I don't think Jesus would have minded a little underage smoking and teenage rebellion."

"Higher authority, as in _the state,_ " Belle clarified. "They're not just my rules I'm upholding."

"Oh."

It was awkward, now. She hadn't meant to reprimand him (but really, the man needed to be reprimanded, this school was running close to anarchy); she knew from her excessive magazine collection that men hated being criticized, particularly by women. If she couldn't get through a simple work function without alienating the male species, how was she going to reenter the dating sphere?

God….

She was going to have to get a cat, wasn't she?

 _Tabitha's a cute name,_ she thought miserably. _Maybe Chloe._

"Well, I offer my sincerest apologies," Gold went on. "I have a rather rambunctious crowd of youngsters to deal with, so perhaps I do fall _a little_ behind in the discipline, but that's hardly an excuse."

"As I said, I'm not here to judge. My concern is Emma," Belle said. Before they could lapse into another awkward silence, she cleared her throat. "Let's just keep going with the evaluation, shall we?"

In the end, it wasn't a _complete_ disaster: slightly uncomfortable, but Gold had an easy smile and a sense of humor. He may have been less than an exemplary counselor, but he was otherwise pleasant—even charming, at times. And maybe it was the eight-month dry spell talking, but he pulled off that three-piece-suit _quite_ well.

"So…" Belle said, scribbling down the last of her notes. "I think we've got everything covered. I'll speak to Emma about the smoking and the tardiness, but other than that, everything looks good."

Gold followed her with his eyes as she stood up, looking mildly disappointed. "I suppose you'll be leaving, then?" he asked, half-rising from his seat.

"I've got a lot to do today," she sighed. "Paperwork, _so_ much paperwork."

"I hear you," Gold nodded, following her to the door. "Ah, paperwork…Rules and fine lines shackle us like chains. Enslaved to The Man, are we."

Belle blinked, flummoxed. "What?"

"I'm something of a free lance poet," Gold said with a modest shrug.

"Oh, I see…" Her hand was on the doorknob, but she was reluctant to leave things on an awkward note. The minutes stretched by, Gold's smile growing strained and Belle's pretense of checking that she had her phone losing credibility. Bordering on desperation, she finally offered, "That's, um—that's a really nice suit, by the way."

For some reason, Gold looked especially intrigued by this. "Do you think so?" he said, touching a hand to his collar.

"It's nice," Belle nodded.

"…Sexy?"

Her eyes widened, her heart jumping in her throat. " _What?_ "

"Nothing!" Gold said hastily. "Just—Emma was in here earlier—mentioned you—never mind! I'm sorry, Miss French, that was—"

"Extremely inappropriate!" Belle said, still staring at him in disbelief.

"And it won't happen again," he promised. "I'm sorry—it's this new cologne I've been using, it makes me feel overly confident. It's very empowering, very masculine."

" _I wouldn't know_ ," Belle said with deliberation. "In the work place, I try to conduct myself professionally."

"I _am_ sorry," he repeated, sounding genuine. Belle softened slightly, but held her purse closer, as if to protect herself. "I accept your apology," she said stiffly, hoping her face wasn't as red as it felt. "Now as I said, I really must be going."

"Of course."

Wishing she'd left sooner rather than later, Belle swung open the door and strode out; determinedly ignoring Regina's curious looks after her; determinedly ignoring the fact that a seventeen-year-old had apparently tried to meddle in her pathetic love-life; determinedly ignoring the fact that under other circumstances, she might have admitted that Gold's suit was indeed…fairly sexy.


	3. Chapter 3

Ruby listlessly drew her fork around her plate, barely listening as her grandmother tried to trick her and Neal into engaging in small talk. Mathilde Lucas was a true representative of her generation, and mindless chatter about one's day and other people's business was one of her favorite activities.

"…saw how Dr. Hopper's roses were coming in, and they're looking quite nice," she was saying, dutifully cutting her meatloaf into smaller pieces. "But the begonias are suffering a bit."

"Dear God, not the begonias," Neal said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Mathilde raised her eyes, and gave a small _hmph_ of disapproval.

"I wouldn't sit there so smugly, young man," she said with pursed lips. "Not after the call I got from your school."

Ruby raised her eyebrows with interest, and glanced over at Neal. He was determinedly avoiding her gaze, his eyes fixed on Mathilde's with a steeliness that dared her to pick a fight. His hand was clenched tightly around his fork, the prongs spearing his meatloaf with a savageness it did not deserve.

"Was it Booth?" he asked bitterly. "Did he tell you what happened?"

Mathilde raised an eyebrow at his tone. "Yes, Neal, he did."

"Did he tell you _why?_ "

"No, and nor did I ask." Mathilde shook her head in disapproval, going back to her plate. "No reason is enough reason to use violence."

Neal scoffed something that sounded a lot like, " _Bullshit",_ but it was too low for Mathilde to hear. Deciding to take advantage of her newly-emphasized position as "the good kid", Ruby straightened in her seat, and cleared her throat.

"Granny?" she said, keeping her voice as sweet and girlish as she could. "Speaking of school, um…" She tucked her hair behind her ear, looking up from under her lashes. "I've got this French test on Monday, and um—well, I have this friend, who was going to help me study Saturday night, so would it be okay if…?"

She trailed off, painfully aware of how lame her story sounded. Lying to her grandmother _never_ worked because one, Ruby was a terrible liar; and two, Mathilde could sniff out dishonesty like a bloodhound.

"You want to go out and Saturday night…and _study._ " The skepticism in her voice was practically tangible. She laid down her fork, peering at her granddaughter over her spectacles, leaning slightly forward. "With a friend?"

"Yes?" Ruby said in a small voice, ignoring Neal's derisive snort.

"Do I know this friend?"

"…Not exactly."

"Uh-huh." Mathilde gave a brisk nod, and sat back in her seat, taking up her silverware again. "And is this friend a boy or a girl?"

Ruby bit her lip. "Well—he's a boy, but he's really nice and—"

"At that age, boys are only nice for one reason," Mathilde scoffed. "No, Ruby. You may _not_ go out on Saturday night."

"But we're just going to study!" Ruby pleaded. "I swear, Granny! Nothing will happen!"

"Is it that moron, Peter?" Neal asked, a devilish smile on his face. "It is, isn't it?" He glanced at Mathilde, answering her unspoken question with a little shrug: "He's got a thing for her."

"Shut up Neal, it's not Peter!" Ruby snapped, her face reddening as Neal snickered into his potatoes. Peter had been her "boyfriend" in second grade. They had held hands during the Valentine's Day parade, and Neal had never let her live it down— _ever._

"Who is it, then?" Mathilde prodded. " _Who,_ Ruby?"

"Like it matters!" Ruby shoved her chair back from the table, and folded her arms tightly across her chest, glowering. "You already said, I couldn't go!"

"Well, that was when I didn't know who he was. If you tell me, I might change my mind." Mathilde raised her eyebrows, taking a bite of meatloaf, regarding her granddaughter with exaggerated patience. "And you'd have an even better chance if you stopped lying to me."

"I wasn't lying!"

"Studying? On a Saturday night? With a strange boy?"

"Okay, fine, maybe I was lying a little," Ruby grumbled; then added, in a flush of temper, "But I wouldn't have to, if you weren't such a tyrant!"

Mathilde sputtered a bemused laugh. "A _tyrant?_ "

"Yes!" Ruby sat up, her voice taking on a desperate edge. "No one else's parents have all these stupid rules! I'm the only one in the entire school who's not dating!"

"Oh, no, you're not." Mathilde pointed her fork at Neal. "Your brother doesn't date."

"That's because he's a _psychopath!_ He doesn't even socialize, he just—" she waved her hands wildly over her head— "hovers around and scares people!"

"People are scared of what they can't control," Neal said, giving her a withering look. "Just because my life doesn't revolve around pep rallies and football games—"

"Shut _up,_ Neal! God!" Ruby firmly turned her chair away from her brother, appealing to Mathilde with clasped hands and desperate eyes. " _Please,_ Granny? He's really nice, and I'll let you meet him and everything. Please, can I go?"

Mathilde narrowed her eyes. "Do you know what happened the last time I let a teenager in this house date?"

"Here we go," Neal muttered, as Ruby let out a defeated sigh.

"Your mother, God rest her soul, _insisted_ that he was a nice young man, a responsible young man. They went to a dance. They took his car. And what happened?" Mathilde slapped the table, and pointed at Neal. "Your brother happened!"

Ruby rolled her eyes. She barely remembered her mother at all, but the account of her teen pregnancy…? _That_ was something Mathilde had drilled into her memory for sixteen years. Funny, how easy it was to remember the mistakes Anita had made; but when it came to the totalitarian parenting that prompted her daughter to rebel so furiously, Mathilde couldn't remember a damn thing.

It wasn't fair, Ruby thought mutinously. Just because her mother had made a mistake, it didn't mean _she_ would! If there was anyone to worry about, it was Neal. He was the one who always getting in trouble, making a scene at school, picking fights; Ruby had never even gotten detention! Didn't that win her any points, at all?

"I've never given you a reason not to trust me." Ruby folded her arms petulantly. "I'm not the one who got the phone call from school. I've never broken curfew or gotten drunk or anything. And Killian doesn't even have a car, so it's not like—"

Neal's fork clattered loud to his plate, making Ruby look over, startled. He was staring at her, eyes filled with incredulous fury. "Did you say 'Killian'?" he demanded."Killian, as in, Killian _Jones?_ "

Ruby almost nodded; then remembered it wasn't any of his business, and scoffed at him. "I wasn't talking to you, spaz."

Neal didn't seem to hear her: he looked at Mathilde, wide-eyed and scoffing. "You're not going to let her go, are you? Not with that guy?"

"What do you care?" Ruby shot back. "You're not involved, you've got too many pep rallies and football games to avoid! Granny, don't listen to him, he doesn't know what he's talking about."

"Like hell, I don't!"

"Neal!" Mathilde snapped. "Language, young man!"

" _Heck,_ whatever…". Neal rolled his eyes, trailing off with a few muttered obscenities. Fortunately for him, Mathilde was too busy training her stern gaze on Ruby, preparing another lecture.

"Now, listen," she said. "Jut because you've never given me trouble, that doesn't mean the rules don't apply to you. It just means that you're better at following them than _this_ one—" her head jerked toward Neal. "For that, I thank you. But I'm not going to give you the opportunity to get _into_ trouble, as a reward for avoiding it."

"You let Neal go out whenever he wants," Ruby glared. "Why, because he's more _trustworthy_ than me? Really?"

"It's not you, I don't trust. It's the boy."

"Neal's a boy," she argued. "You trust him."

Mathilde closed her eyes and knit her hands under her chin, letting out an exasperated sigh. Ruby bit her lip, waiting. She had laid out all her arguments, which—in all fairness—were solid as a rock. That didn't guarantee a victory, but Mathilde would be hard-pressed to find a legitimate way against it.

Neal watched just as warily, twisting the fork between his fingers. He exchanged a look with Ruby: the look that siblings share when they are simultaneously holding their breath, briefly united in their uncertainty.

Mathilde lowered her hands after a few silent moments, lips pursed decisively. She looked over her spectacles at her grandchildren, switching her eyes between the two until they came to a rest on Ruby. "All right," she said finally. "You can date—"

Ruby choked back a a shriek of delight, covering her hands over her mouth as Neal sputtered out a, "Are you _insane?"_

"—when he does."

Her heart dropped. " _What?"_

Neal snorted, dropping his head to hide his laughter.

"But he's a _mutant!"_ Ruby said, outraged. _"_ What if he never dates?"

"Then _you'll_ never date." Mathilde settled back in her seat, prim in her posture with renewed rigidity in her meatloaf-cutting. "And Neal? You can no longer stay out past nine on school nights, same as Ruby."

His laughter faded. "I'm sorry?"

"Ten on the weekends."

"But that's—" Neal gave his head a shake, still smiling in disbelief—"that's ridiculous. This isn't nineteen-fifty-seven, there isn't anything to do _before_ ten."

"There's always pep rallies," Ruby smirked.

"No one asked you, Princess."

"What's good for the goose is good for the gander," Mathilde declared, cutting swiftly through their bickering. "If Ruby can't date, you can't stay out all hours of the night. And I don't want to hear another word about things not being _fair_ or who's earned what. You are both equally restricted and equally privileged."

"But—" Neal began furiously, just as Ruby groaned, " _Stupid—"_

Mathilde looked up with flashing eyes, this time pointing her knife instead of her fork. "Not. Another. _Word,"_ she hissed, in such a way that even Neal shrank back. "Eat your dinners before they turn ice cold. I want those plates cleaned, do you understand?"

They nodded mutely, picking up their forks.

"And after dinner, you will clean the kitchen." Mathilde inhaled deeply, lifting her chin with parental authority. "And after that, you will return to your rooms, finish your homework, and go straight to bed. And don't even _think_ about sneaking out through the window, because I am going to be stationed in _that_ chair—" she pointed at her ratty armchair, only just visible in the corner of the family room—"all night. And when I am not stationed in that chair, I will be prowling the halls, making bed checks. I will throw back all blankets and ensure that your physical presence is in that bed. And if I find otherwise, you may as well sign your soul over to me right now, because it—and you—will be grounded for the rest of your natural life. Do you understand?"

"Yes," they both muttered grudgingly.

Mathilde gave a satisfied nod, clearly putting the matter out of mind. She did not expect that Neal would wait until her seventy-year-old self gave way to exhaustion before hopping out his bedroom window and scaling the wall. She did not expect that Ruby—still slumping in her seat—was already thinking of a thousand ways she could work around this new rule, a thousand loopholes. She did not her grandchildren to defy her or challenge her authority further, because in her day, children respected their elders and drank their milk and went to Sunday school, like they were supposed to.

Unfortunately for her, neither Ruby nor Neal thought much of parental authority; unfortunately for her, they had inherited their mother's wild streak, and with Neal's cleverness and Ruby's stubbornness, Mathilde's rules really didn't stand a chance.


End file.
